Chapter Text
The first thing you learned about Professor Aizawa was that he did not take attendance.
Which sounded like a blessing.
Until you realized he memorized every student anyway.
“Sit,” he muttered on the first day, voice dry enough to sand wood. “If you’re here to waste time, drop now.”
Nobody dropped.
You stayed.
That, apparently, was mistake number one.
UA University wasn’t what you expected. Less heroic fanfare, more brutal coursework, and professors who acted like they’d rather be anywhere else.
Aizawa Shouta looked like he’d lost a fight with sleep sometime around 2009 and never recovered. Messy hair, stubble, that same grey capture scarf draped around his shoulders like a warning sign.
He taught Quirk Control and Applied Field Strategy.
He also watched you.
Not constantly. Not obviously.
But enough that you noticed.
At first, it was just little things.
You answered a question in class once, explaining how your quirk could manipulate vector direction rather than raw force.
Aizawa’s eyes flicked up from his sleeping bag.
“Not wrong,” he said.
Which, in Aizawa-language, felt like a standing ovation.
You thought about that for three days.
Your crush started quietly.
It wasn’t one of those cinematic lightning strikes. More like a slow accumulation of moments.
The way he’d tug his scarf tighter when thinking.
The way he noticed when students were exhausted and quietly extended deadlines without comment.
The way he never once questioned your name or pronouns when you corrected the roster.
Just scratched it out. Rewrote it. Moved on.
Like it had never been anything else.
That stuck with you.
The first time he kept you after class, it was for something harmless.
“Stay a minute,” he said, not looking up.
Your stomach flipped.
You stayed.
The classroom emptied, chairs scraping, chatter fading into the hallway until it was just you, him, and the hum of fluorescent lights.
He leaned back in his chair, studying you with those tired, sharp eyes.
“Your control’s improving,” he said. “But you hesitate.”
You blinked. “I, hesitate?”
“You think before acting. Good for survival. Bad in a fight.”
You swallowed. “I’m working on it.”
He hummed.
Not judgmental. Just… considering.
“You overanalyze outcomes,” he continued. “You don’t trust your instincts yet.”
Your face heated. “That obvious?”
“To me, yes.”
A pause.
Then, almost casually:
“You nervous right now?”
Your brain short-circuited.
“I, what? No- I mean, a little..”
His mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one.
“Relax,” he said. “I don’t bite.”
That was the exact moment you realized you were doomed.
After that, it kept happening.
You’d be packing up your bag when
“Stay.”
Or
“Walk with me.”
Or
“You’ve got five minutes?”
Always practical reasons. Feedback. Strategy corrections. Quirk analysis.
But there was something else threaded underneath it.
He noticed when you got flustered.
Noticed when you tried too hard to sound confident.
Noticed when you avoided eye contact after he complimented you.
And he let it happen.
Like he was... waiting.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Your crush didn’t fade.
It grew roots.
He started calling on you more in class.
Not unfairly. Not excessively. Just enough that your classmates started giving you looks.
Midoriya once whispered, “You know he respects you, right?”
You nearly choked.
Respect was one thing.
The way your pulse spiked every time Aizawa said your name was... another.
One evening, rain hammered the windows, turning the campus into a watercolor blur.
Most students had fled early.
You stayed late in the training gym, practicing control drills until your muscles trembled.
You didn’t realize he was watching until his voice cut through the empty room.
“You’re overcompensating.”
You jumped.
He stood in the doorway, scarf pooled around his shoulders, hair slightly damp from the rain.
“How long have you been there?” you asked.
“Long enough.”
He stepped inside, hands in his pockets.
“Why push this hard tonight?”
You hesitated.
“…Did bad on the midterm.”
“You passed.”
“Barely.”
He studied you.
Then, softer:
“You don’t measure yourself fairly.”
That hit harder than any critique.
You looked away. “I just don’t want to fall behind.”
A pause.
Then he walked closer, stopping just outside your personal space.
“You won’t,” he said.
Simple. Steady. Certain.
Your chest tightened.
“…You can’t know that.”
“I can,” he replied. “Because I’ve been watching you all semester.”
Your brain stalled.
He tilted his head slightly.
“And you’ve been watching me.”
Your heart slammed into your ribs.
“I- what”
“I’m not blind,” he said, voice calm. “You get quiet when I stand near you. You try too hard to impress me. You stay late when you don’t need to.”
Your face burned.
“I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean to make it weird-”
“I didn’t say it was a problem.”
That stopped you cold.
You looked up.
His expression wasn’t teasing.
Wasn’t annoyed.
If anything, it looked… thoughtful.
Measured.
Like he’d been deciding something for a while.
“You’re an adult,” he continued. “And I’m not interested in power games.”
Your breath caught.
“But,” he said, voice lower now, “I also don’t ignore things forever.”
Silence stretched between you.
Rain against the windows. Your pulse in your ears.
“Finish the semester,” he said quietly. “Then we talk.”
Your brain fizzled.
“…Talk?”
He met your eyes fully now.
“Yes.”
Not a promise.
Not a confession.
Just an opening.
And somehow that was worse.
Because now there was hope.
You walked back to your dorm in the rain without remembering the trip.
Finish the semester.
Then we talk.
Your crush had just turned into something real.
Something patient.
Something dangerous.
Something worth waiting for.
And for the first time, the future didn’t feel like a distant concept.
It felt like a door.
One you might actually get to open.